The Joker and the Queen
by kissedagirlandilikedit
Summary: AU. House is a retiring thief sacking the casino of his ex, Cuddy. Enlisting the help of his best friend Wilson, a poker champ and millionaire, he discovers that getting revenge is not as easy as it seems. Feat. ducklings as heist team. Poker & sex. Mmm.
1. Intro: Everybody Loves Somebody

This is a Vegas story.

This is also a love story, the kind that gets told between hands and the tumble of the die across a felt table, fingers snapping, lips licked in anticipation, a sea of chips clattering against the brain.

Love is not unlike gambling. You roll, you play, you give everything you have or you give as little as possible. You trip into bedrooms like bets and you place the entire contents of your heart on one kiss, one smooth cheek. Winner takes all. What you risk reveals what you value.

And then it becomes an addiction. You're adding up days in your head, trying to figure out how much time you have left, how many more sheets you can muss before the long legs won't wrap around you anymore, before her hair doesn't spread across your pillow quite the same way. You come back time and time again, you drink in her irises like you're gulping down whiskey. Her lips become a liquor, heavy on the mind. You bet quickly, recklessly. You end up on your knees and you end up there often. And when she walks away, you grow thin and tired and you shake with the effort of remembering. There is nothing but the need and the gnawing at the heart. If you can't have her, you can't live. If you can't have her...

This is a Vegas story, and a love story. You can get it cheap here, and you can get as much of it as you want, but to score big, you learn to risk it all. And when you lose love, you have to learn how to move on to the next table and join the next game.

Or you break the rules. You throw out the game, and you learn how to steal it back.


	2. King of the Five Card Stud

This is the truth of the matter: James Wilson was too old to be doing this anymore.

If he had a dime for every time that thought crossed his already tired mind, he'd have millions in guilt money by now. Then again, he already had millions, which is why he was currently sitting in a $300,000 original Bauhaus-era Wassily chair, biting his lip. In any other circumstance, he would be enjoying the cognac in his hand, reclining as to better take in the view out the bay doors. Beyond the balcony, the sun lit up the impeccably mowed greens and beach overlook, a lone gardener trimming the topiaries along the east wing. In any other circumstance, he would not have the sinking suspicion that things were about to take another famous turn for the worst.

Across the room, his companion gave his own glass a distrustful frown, and downed his brandy in one swig. Wilson's jaw dropped.

"You do realize that's Delamain's reserve blend, right? $7,900 a decanter. God, you don't just slurp it like a slushie!"

The other man whistled, running a finger over the edge of the glass. "You could buy a year's worth of cheap hookers with three glasses of this. I mean, pick your poison, but you could use some company, Jimmy."

"I thought that's what you were doing here."

"Ha. You wish. Actually, I was planning on sending over some friends for you on your birthday, but, you know. A little difficult to arrange given the circumstances."

"Can you still send cards from prison? Because I'm pretty sure I didn't get one of those either."

"Lost in the mail." Greg House grinned. His lean frame was hidden beneath an oversized suit. Wilson assumed it no longer fit him due to the five years House had been wearing orange. A bow tie hung loosely from the suit pocket.

"You were wearing a bow tie when you went in?"

"And had saltines in my jacket." House extracted the crumbling remains of crackers, still in their packages, from his pocket. "Can't explain that one either."

"If you're here about the bail -"

"That you very easily could have pulled off, but didn't?" House shrugged. "I'll consider it a lesson learned on my part. Thank you for the metaphorical slap on the wrist."

"Technically, part of the deal was that if I agreed not to pay the bail, they'd only give you five years." Wilson bit his lip again, an old habit. "I may or may not have talked to the judge before your sentence, about shortening it..."

"And here I thought they let me out for good behavior." House smiles again, the reckless one with nothing or anything behind it. "I'd have no way of knowing that, though, seeing as you never told me. I mean, you didn't exactly visit, Jimmy. You could have at least written."

"Also part of the agreement. No contact."

"This was quite the deal. Congratulations on holding to an agreement for once in your life."

"Well House, when the authorities see you as a negative influence on a flight risk prisoner, they don't you give you much wiggle room."

Wilson's mind drifted momentarily to the last day he had seen House, which he realized now must have been in the courtroom five years before. On trial for attempted robbery of the Princeton, pleading guilty and waiting for a deal. House had leaned over his shoulder before they led him out, given Wilson a smile.

"Don't forget to remind her."

"About what?"

"Conjugal visits, Wilson." He winked as they pulled him towards the door. Wilson made brief eye contact with the woman on the other side of the aisle, her gaze taking him apart, piece by well-insured piece.

Wilson looked up at House now, his suit hanging limply from his frame, one eyebrow raised as he appraised a book on the shelf. He silently hoped that Lisa Cuddy's name would not come up in this conversation, but knowing House, that was most likely a lost cause.

"Good to see you're still well-read." House shelved the book, a first edition H.G. Wells that was really not meant for human handling. Wilson winced as it slid noisily against the other antique covers. "All they had in the prison bookmobile were John Grishams and erotica. You ever read Skinhead smut? It's not pleasant material."

"House. Let's stop skating around the subject here. What do you want?"

"Why do I need to want something? Five years in prison, maybe I'm looking for some simple friendship that doesn't involve trading razors and a handie in the shower." He grinned at Wilson's reaction. "No homo, right."

"House."

"Fine, fine. Okay, are you ready?" House's eyes lit up in an unnatural way. Wilson held his breath, expecting the absolute worst. After years at a card table, you get a feel for faces. House's was almost always in a state of enlightenment or elation, though neither were positive signs.

"I've got one more job. And I want you in on it."

"I knew we'd be getting to this eventually." Wilson let out a sigh, shaking his head. "House, I'm retired. No more casinos, no more championship poker tournaments, no more of you borrowing my money. That's the point." He gestured around him. "_This_ right here, this estate? This is a giant sign saying James Wilson is done. Kaput."

House's face fell, though not in defeat. Defeat was rarely an option for him, as Wilson and his bank account knew all too well. "Come on, Wilson. This is chump stuff here, this is shit we swore we'd never do."

"No, correction. This is something _you_ swore you'd never do. I've been wanting this for a long time, you know that. A non-stop life of crime was never in the cards for me."

"But everything is in the cards for you, that's the point. You're the best card-sharp of your generation. This is a waste of your talent!"

"I don't need talent. I have money, I'm going to sit on it and enjoy my days of golf and fishing. You can exit the same way you came in, the door is behind you."

"Bullshit. Money was never an object, Mister Ivy League Legacy. You played for the thrill, and I know that _you_ know that deep down inside of your cold Jewish heart you still long for the game."

"The problem is that it's never just a game with you, House. I play cards, we make money, you rob casinos. Or whatever it is you're feeling stupid enough to go after, I don't even know."

House shrugs innocently, a rare gesture. "No, you're right on the money there. I want a casino."

"Again? Can't you at least be original?" Wilson counts on his fingers. "How many have we cased by now?"

"We're one short, I think."

It dawns on Wilson then, like a frying pan to the skull. "Oh, _no_. You're not thinking of..."

House reaches into his pocket, snapping a chip into the air. Wilson's instinct gets the best of him and he catches it, groans at the name that encircles the plastic rim.

"The Princeton. Of course." He glares up at House, or at least attempts a glare. Glares do not suit James Wilson all too well. "This is isn't a thrill ride, House. This is revenge."

"She owes me. You _know_ she owes me." House's eyes narrow. "She turned me in and got me five years in prison."

"Which is the legal thing to do, of course. So you turn around and rob her new casino." In so many frustrating ways, Wilson is not surprised. "Your twisted version of justice is served."

"When was the last time you spoke with her?"

Wilson feints a thought process. "Not sure. Probably around the same time as the trial."

House scoffs. "Nice try. For a great poker player, you're a shitty liar."

"It was last month."

"And how are things?" Wilson notes his ex-partner avoiding eye contact, another of his rare tells. "Is she doing...well?"

"Really? You sound like you're asking for pleasantries. Are you sacking her casino or are you trying to get back into her pants?"

"I'm curious. Don't read too far into it."

"She's...fine. Christ, can't you leave it alone? How do you know she's not going to turn you in all over again?"

"I've been practicing my irresistible charm behind bars. Now I'm extra irresistible."

"She won't let you in the door. You know that, don't you? Every guard in that place will have your face memorized."

"That's why I'm not going to be doing this alone. Thought I'd get the old gang back together, make some magic." House's lower lip juts in appeal. "Come on, Jimmy. You know if you don't come along, I'm just going to get into trouble, get myself killed. Something terrible that you'll spend the rest of your lonely billionaire days feeling guilt about."

"Because letting you go to jail wasn't guilt-inducing enough."

"Exactly. Imagine if I actually got killed this time!"

"One can dream."

"So."

The truth is this: Wilson does consider the possibilities. He is a planner; it is rooted in him in the same way that his blood knows how to beat, that he knows how to detect human sadness in everyone but himself. He knows that he could agree to this deal, and likely see his partner returned to a jail cell, his old friend returned to a second bout of heartbreak, and his bank account drained to a bare minimum. He also knows that no one in the world can run a heist like Greg House, and despite the methods he takes to get there, his ends continually justify his means. He also knows, but refuses to say, that despite their history, the lives of his partner and the head of the Princeton Casino have always been more than entangled.

Things could go terribly, terribly wrong.

"Fine. I'm in."

But on the odd chance that they go right, he knows how to play that hand.


	3. Interlude: These Foolish Things

The first time was a long time ago. And back then, time was not of the essence. Time was cheap and easy, the girl you could always bring home, didn't need to impress or weigh standards before fucking. They took it slow, thought nothing of the next morning, or the next day, or the years in the distance that would wear these things away. Or they ran full speed into one another, and delighted in the crash.

She tries not to think about the first time.

What she remembers of the second time is getting drunk off of champagne of all things, and the lightness of her limbs as he pulled her into an empty ballroom. He teased her about cameras and her security and the bodyguards standing outside the door. One room over, the band was playing Billie Holiday, and her dress fell to the floor, piano keys sang under her splayed fingers and spread legs. He stopped her, laughing, and pulled the cover down.

"We don't need any accompaniment, thanks," and then pulled off her thong with his teeth.

There were other times. Many other times. They blend together in an assortment of positions, exposed skin, folds in satin sheets. They fill the space beside her when she sleeps, flattens her other pillow from time to time. If they don't accompany her to bed, they find their way into dreams, memories that linger too long. She stirs, tries not to react even when everything aches and throbs.

Mostly, she thinks about the last time.

They were arguing about something. She was mad about something he'd said at dinner, he was trying to blow it off. By the time the elevator hit the penthouse, they were screaming. By the time they had passed the couch, he had pulled her onto it and was undressing her, screaming or no.

"I'm still mad," she'd insisted, but kissed him, bit down a little harder than usual. "This changes nothing."

"You're going to be mad for a long time."

"Not necessarily."

And at that point they'd made eye contact, and something in his eyes had shifted. She'd stopped, her arms around his neck.

"What do you mean?"

"Trust me. You're going to be mad. And I'm going to be the sorriest I've ever been."

And then he'd kissed her collarbone, and she'd forgotten until the next day, when a security guard on the second basement level had found the rerouters attached to the circuitry, and she'd found the plans in his bag and the copy of the security card in his wallet, and everything had changed.

By the time he'd gotten out of the shower, she'd had everything spread out on the bed. And by the time he'd realized what had gone wrong, she was watching him smile from between the shoulders of two cops, his wrists cuffed and his hands wriggling a goodbye.

When he turned to say something, she'd shut the elevator doors.

No one really wins, she thinks, and turns back to the casino floor. This is her game now. She strokes each rule with a finger, and waits for it to burst.


	4. Why Can't You Behave

Wilson had not originally pegged House for a thief. That was another irony, given the fact that his strength in life was reading faces and calling bluffs. Their friendship was based on one rather unfair bar fight, and House's consistent ability to remind Wilson of said bar fight. As they'd boarded his private jet, House had once again leaned in and mentioned the great luck that he'd run into him that one time during that one bar fight. He'd rolled his eyes in response. Great luck indeed.

On the flight to Vegas, Wilson orders a sidecar. He stares at it for a good minute before drinking it, attracting House's attention.

"You know, Jim, you don't need to make eye contact with it first. It goes down just fine without attempting a connection."

The glass is cold against Wilson's palm; he feels the condensation forming against the single finger with the flattened, calloused surface, its prints burned off in one of House's worse ideas.

"My grandfather used to drink these. He was famous for drinking these. My whole life, I've considered this drink to be something a grandfather would order."

"That's because it _is_ something a grandfather would order."

"But I'm _not_ a grandfather. At least not as far as I know."

House shuddered, his aviators still on. "That's a terrifying thought." He leaned back in his seat, placing his feet on the leather stool beside the liquor cabinet.

Wilson continued to stare at the glass, refusing to finish it. "Maybe I do need another job. Maybe this retirement thing is getting to me."

"Now you're talking. Order yourself a beer, for Christ's sake. And when we get there, promise me you will finally get laid."

"House."

"Fine, but keep your options in mind; you'll get extra points for trying."

"Can I trade these points in for anything?"

"Stakes."

"Which only count if you don't get caught again."

House yawned. "Life's a gamble, Wilson. Wake me up when we get there. Or better yet, have your stewardess wake me up. See if she can do it with her tits."


	5. Interlude: Young At Heart

The first time was a cherry red 1975 Triumph Bonneville. They were in Amsterdam then, the days stretching out like the flat slab of concrete that constituted the military base. He was 16, restless, his limbs too long and his heart too fast. Every breath screamed to be released. He started skipping school, drank too much, smoked behind bars in a crowd of Marine brats with chips on their shoulders. They found alleys with painted walls to lean against, learned to use knives, handled guns with heavy fingers. When his mother watched him stumble home every night, she said nothing.

The Bonneville was parked on the edge of the base every week. It caught his eye as he walked across the rows of identical houses to the American school, the other kids trailing. They were as much strangers as he was, moved from country to country, learning to pack their lives into two suitcases. He arrived with a shiner from a yakuza in Tokyo, he'd leave in another year with a white scar on his shoulder from a knife fight in Lijnden.

He'd learned how to hotwire from years of following adults into the hangars, and studying the manuals in his father's books. It was easier than it looked. On a Saturday, he walked to the fence with his hands in his pockets, and chased a hunch.

It was his first time on a bike, and it roared beneath him, bucked like a bronco as he hit the turns. He spun out on wet cobblestone five miles outside of the base, and was laughing even as he slid into a wall, his arm scraping open as it hit bare brick. He left the bike on its side as the clouds opened, ran all the way back home with his arms spread wide, rain in his face. Something had unlocked in that moment, like a beautiful dream descending.

From then on, the ideas were always overtaking him. He was not a big picture man. Things evolved in his mind from tiny clicks of the cogs, thoughts trained from smaller and more precise details. When he saw something he wanted, he knew how to get it.

Today, he knows exactly what he wants. His mind has always been brilliant at figuring that out. It's the moral faction that never quite developed.


	6. Let's Do It

They meet in a strip club on the edge of town, tucked between two ancient casinos whose fronts are crumbling just as fast as their lights are glittering. The place is called Betty's, and it was the last place they were all together before everything went south.

"And by south, you don't mean Mexico." House says as soon as Wilson reminds him, tips back another drink. "Although I wouldn't mind if everything had gone to Mexico. You order a tequila there, that's the real deal." A stripper in a gold bikini approaches, leans over him. "How is the tequila in this joint, babe?"

"I don't drink on my shifts." She climbs into his lap, winking over his shoulder at Wilson. "You boys want a dance?"

Wilson enthusiastically shakes his head. "No distractions, please. We're having a business meeting."

She raises an eyebrow. "In a strip club?"

"My thoughts exactly. Apparently the Hilton isn't seedy enough." He glares over at House, who slides a twenty into her gold strap.

"Ignore him." House leans back in his seat. "What's your name, kid?"

"Tawny." She slides over him and starts a lapdance. Wilson rubs his temples and nurses his drink. House grins.

"Of course it is. Tell me, Tawny. What would you do if your ex showed up here and tried to rob the place?"

"I'd probably kill him."

House clicked his tongue. "That seems a little drastic."

"I always bring my gun to work. He'd be asking for it." She licks the side of his neck. "My ex is a real bastard, trust me. He used to tell me not to strip anymore."

"The audacity!" House turns to Wilson, gesturing with exaggeration. "Keeping all the wealth for himself! Begging his girlfriend to stop whoring herself out. Selfish, selfish man."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yes, how unreasonable."

"Alright, Tawny. Riddle me this. He may be a bastard, but do you still love him?"

"I wouldn't kill him if I didn't hate him. But I mostly hate him because I still love him." She pauses in her gyrating. "Sugar, do you really want me to talk about my ex while I give you a lapdance?"

"So if this ex were to redeem himself in your eyes, what would he have to do?"

"I don't know. Buy me a car, or a diamond, or something. And not run off with some cheap bitch like he did last time. Learn from what happened, and treat me right."

Wilson leans across the table. "So you're saying he shouldn't repeat past mistakes?"

House shoves him back. "That's not what she said. She said he should buy her something expensive."

"You never listen."

"I listen _selectively_. Very different from not listening."

Across the room, two men have entered the club. They peer across the ineffective strobe lights to House and Wilson's table. The blonde raises a hand in acknowledgement.

"Right on time." House pushes the girl off of him. "Thanks for the answers, Tawny. Try not to blow your ex away if he turns up."

"Chase and Foreman," Wilson pops open his briefcase. "Always the first ones."

"We shared a cab." Chase slides into the booth across from them. The Australian's hair has grown out, but his white Tom Ford suit is impeccable. House had found him in a bar in Copenhagen, his rental car's trunk full of stolen paintings. He is the finest con man of his generation, but he had a soft spot for art dealing and fixer-upper girls.

"That's not the only thing you two shared." House's mouth twitches into a half-smile. "Speaking of which, is 13 going to be gracing us with her presence?"

Foreman raises an eyebrow. "She's got a job in Bangkok. Probably won't be back until February at the earliest." Foreman is, in many ways that House would never admit but which Wilson was all to quick to point out, very similar to the head of this job. He's grown ruthless, calculating, and was prone to Machiavellian practices. He os also an incredible safe cracker and could assemble a bomb in about two minutes, so House had kept him around. He'd busted him out of juvenile in Baltimore when he was 17, and Foreman owed him.

"Too bad. Could have used her." House slides a gin and tonic across the table. "So. How was your summer?"

Chase slumps in his seat, avoiding eye contact. "I got a divorce."

House wags a finger over his drink. "This is why I always say that you should never get involved with another criminal."

"That sage advice probably would have come in handy when you attended my wedding."

"I didn't have much choice in attendance, did I? I was hiding out from the Italian police, a Roman church seemed pretty ideal."

"You were also invited."

"It's sweet that you think I would have come of my own admission. Foreman?"

"No complaints."

"Good, that's what I like to hear." House looks up at the next guest arriving. "Hide your wives, kids."

"That's very funny." Taub is a former Caltech professor whose career had taken a sudden spin when he'd been accused of hacking into the government's private sector. The charges were lifted when not enough evidence was found, but everyone at the table knew he was guilty. He also had a weakness for married women, or women who were not his wife. "How was jail?"

"Fine, considering jail can't cheat on me." House winks. "Double-edged sword, huh?"

Foreman lets out a laugh. "You've got to be kidding on me. Your wife, Taub? Really?"

Taub turns red, fumbling with his jacket. "Like you're all in perfect relationships. How'd the divorce go, Chase?"

Chase snorts into his drink. "How the hell did you hear about that?"

"I've been tracking all of your records online. After the last job, one of my credit cards went missing. I was curious as to which one of you thieves was responsible."

House pretends to look shocked. "I'm insulted that you'd think I could ever do such a thing!" Behind him, Wilson rolls his eyes.

"Are you sure it's not your cheating wife?" Foreman is still attempting to stifle his laughter.

"Um, boys." Wilson taps his glass with a swizzle stick, biting his lips. "Order?"

House's grin returns. "Let's stop picking on Don Juan over here. Time to get down to business."

Foreman snorts. "Business, right."

House ignores him, raises his glass. "Never doubt me, padawan. I just got us a five million dollar heist."


	7. Author's Note: Trailer on Youtube

.com/watch?v=vU974R1zoBA

just for your added enjoyment, the trailer to The Joker and the Queen (which I previously titled Poker Face).

et...bienvenue à mes lecteurs français! merci de l'amour! j'écris en anglais, mais j'écris en français aussi...eh, attente...peut-être bientôt...


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